(You already know who I finna do it about😏. Flaujae. I’m doing it for Flaujae.)
Name-Dropper
Flau’jae Johnson x fem!reader
MASTERLIST | MORE
Summary: Your already known in the industry—rapper, influencer, and little sister to a hip-hop icon. But when I drop my debut album and name-drop Flau’jae the internet goes feral.
Warnings: Explicit lyrics, strong language, suggestive content, public tension, mutual obsession
Word count~ 0.3k
My name been in rooms I wasn’t even old enough to walk in.
People like to think I came outta nowhere, but they forget—I been around legends since I was in baby Phat. My debut wasn’t a SoundCloud freestyle or TikTok snippet. Nah. It was a feature. On a Lil Wayne track. And Nicki Minaj too. I was 16. Still in uniform. Spit a 12-bar verse in one take while Birdman watched from the booth. They said I had Lauren Hill in my tone, Foxy in my eyes, and Missy in my pen. But none of that meant anything to me. ‘Cause that was just a Tuesday. And Lauren? That’s Mama.
Yeah. That Lauryn Hill.
And no, I didn’t grow up easy because of it. She made me earn everything. Said talent wasn’t enough. Said this world eats girls like me for breakfast. I ain’t even get my first cosign from her until I sold out SOBs off a mixtape.
So when I dropped my first full album this year, it was a moment. No skips. All truth. I poured every version of me into those songs. The sweet, the rage, the divine, the down bad. And yeah, I talked about women. Real plain. Real casual. I always have. But one track? One track had a name.
“Flau’jae.”
Didn’t censor it. Didn’t hide it in a metaphor. I spelled it out in the second verse, clear as day.
“If I’m ever courtside, she better stretch right / ’Cause I’ve been plotting since her mixtape mic nights / Said she only do music, I’m tryna change types—”
Twitter exploded. Blogs ran wild. “Who’s the mystery rapper obsessed with Flau’jae Johnson?” “Are we witnessing the start of the gayest beef-turned-fling of the year?” Meanwhile, I was eating shrimp in Turks like it wasn’t my name trending in every bracket forum.
I waited weeks. No response. No shade. No bars. Silence. So I popped out.
LSU’s game was packed. Student section going feral. I pulled up like the stage was mine. High boots, trench dragging, lips glossy and outlined, camera-ready. I sat courtside. Dead in front of the bench.
She didn’t look at me first. She waited ‘til the second quarter. Fast break, finish at the rim, crowd goes wild. Then, just before the inbound—she glanced. A real look. The kind that makes your chest clench.
Game ends. LSU wins. I knew they would. Then the mic hits.
Unannounced performance. Special guest. I step onto the court with a live band, no background vocals, no dancers. Just me. Beat drops. Track seven. The crowd screams before I even open my mouth.
I walk the court like a runway. Rap her name right to her. Let the lyrics drip from my lips slow. I don’t wink. I don’t flirt. I tell the truth.
And Flau’jae? She don’t hide it. Don’t duck. She just smiles. Cool. Collected.
I finish the song and walk off to a standing ovation like I didn’t just confess on national television. Two days later, she posts a story. Black screen. White text.
“Type changed.🐯”
I just smiled.
’Cause mama didn’t raise no fool. She raised a legend.
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